


Framed

by heidiamalia



Series: Moments in the After [4]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Matt's POV, Post DDS3, ive decided i want it from all sides, post tps1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 23:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16753786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heidiamalia/pseuds/heidiamalia
Summary: “Do you want a drink?” It's a question you could ask your friends at a normal dinner visit, one where a serial killer isn't casually pulling out a knife from his back pocket to set it on the table. He contemplates removing the mask, a thumb hooking at his ear. “Some food? Frank made garlic bread.”Matt finds out about the bombings last November.





	Framed

**Author's Note:**

> i've been catching on to this pattern i've been doing, and i'm not sure where it'll go, but this is more words than i've done so far - and being in Matt's POV was a bit strange. i'm hoping i've done it justice. small and sweet seems to be where i'm at right now.

He finds out about the bombings when a new client with ties to the Gnucci crime family is suing his doctor for ignoring all of his injuries. Thrusting himself back into his life has been causing his head to spin lately. He had been gone for  _ weeks _ and managed to skip over this event all on his own. What else has he missed?

 

Trauma can do major damage to the human body. Matt listens close as the timid man speaks, his hands waving wildly as he explains where he stood, remembering where he landed several feet away. There is a tremor in his voice. His blood pounds, scared at the memory. 

 

Matt begins to try to soothe him, to tell him it's okay, it's over now, when he goes on about the newspaper editorial that covered the situation. “I heard she works here now,” his hand waves, a pointer finger to the wall on the right. “How is she doing?”

 

The only _she_ in their office is Karen, but she's out at the library fishing through archives for her own projects today, and he's a bit confused. It sputters too fast from his mouth for him to pause. “What?” His face turns to the wall, where he knew they held frames - Foggy set them up when they moved into this space - full of the academic accolades they shared.

 

“Oh,” he rears his head back a moment, and he sighed, a bit of embarrassment edging in his voice. “Sorry,” he began. “The article she wrote about the bomber,” he points again, the air shifting slightly once more. “Headline's on the left.”

 

“She's fine,” he starts. 

 

The man interrupts him. “I don't know how I'd handle being kidnapped,” he says so easily. “Being in the sidelines of that bomb was enough for me, let alone the idea of being right there against it - and then  _ Castle, _ God what a nightmare.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Matt says as he stands up, grabbing for his cane for show. His blood is running cold, and he's trying to keep it together. Kidnapped.  _ Castle's a killer, _ he had reminded her _.  _ Calm, cool, “It's getting late,” he tells him. “We can pick this back up tomorrow, if you're free.”

 

His client stands too, his breathing low and unsure. The sweat on his palms is pressed into the folders of his medical history as he walks out the door. “Foggy,” Matt calls out through the office. His hand is flush to the edge of the desk as he walks around it, aiming for the wall. The cane is left leaning on the client chair, and his hands are scanning the glass on the wall, finding the sharp corners of their collection. 

 

Foggy steps into the room as Matt finds the elongated frame, lifting it from its perch from the bottom. “Yea -  _ oh _ .”

 

“Read it, I want to hear it.”

 

“Matt, this was months ago,” he offers. “She hung it up because it was her first big editorial.” Matt isn't swayed, ticking his head with an inclination, his mouth a flat line. 

 

“I'll sum it all up for you,” he tries then. His tongue darts out quick to start, and Matt can taste the office's French vanilla creamer, briefly. “The basics, a bomber hit a couple places in Manhattan, reached out to Karen at the paper because he thought she'd take his side, she didn't of course, and then Castle saved her.” Foggy put the frame back on its hook, a finger behind it to get it on the first try. “The narrative was adjusted after, but from what she told me, Homeland had other priorities.”

 

“Castle's dead,” Matt says. They read the papers. He disappeared, he knew.  _ See you around, Red. _

 

“So were you,” Foggy counters, a little irritated. “Funny how that works, amiright?”

 

-

 

The screen comes loose with little effort, and it nearly clatters on the fire escape before he can catch it. With the window open to a late spring breeze, he hoists a leg inside, gathering his senses to the room. It's empty, but the wafting strength of roses and leather is prominent on Karen's desk. 

 

There's a movie playing in the living room, dishes clanging against utensils. Pasta, garlic, _chicken carbonara_ , he takes a guess, feeling the scents soak in the room from down the hall. He removes his hand from the glove, reaches to touch. The closest thing is her comforter, and he takes a step toward the doorframe, his feet tripping over something on the carpet. _Dirt,_ he figures. _Concrete dust._ _More leather. Waxy laces_. Boots.

 

He picks up gruff acknowledgement from the other room. Matt can hear rising heartbeats, a shuffling of legs. He tenses where he stands, and realizes -

 

Frank Castle arrives in the doorway, his breathing hard and angry, adrenaline kicking in. One arm grips the frame tight - it’s creaking under the pressure - as if ready to push off like a bullet. 

 

“Goddamnit, Red,” he whispers. He's already pocketed the knife from his dinner plate, still covered in a little sauce. Matt can tell when his arm lowers, the muscles still tight against the tank top, the opened button-up he wears. The scent of Karen's Irish Spring soap comes off his face with each turn of his head, a beard growing. Castle is pointing, accusing. “You ever gonna use the front fucking door?” 

 

At this Frank sighs, no longer seeing a threat by evidence of his heartbeat, and disappears down the hall. He barely gives Matt a chance to explain, or demand he gives one in return. “What's happened?” Karen asks.

 

“Murdock’s in the bedroom,” he tells her. She hums. His tone is mocking, light.  _ Mur-dock.  _ Matt follows his movements. One of Frank's fingers follows the line of her denim jeans at her hip, skimming her skin and guiding her back to the living room. The noise is soft, like a touch across a petal, and the scent of her laundry detergent is evident.

 

Matt touches the mask over his eyes, the black cotton hiding half his face. Did he miss when Castle found out who he was? He's in the hall now, knuckles taut. Did Karen tell him? She lost her job not telling  _ Ellison _ who he was but - 

 

How is she so at ease next to him? She's standing close to Frank, and sets her own knife back onto the kitchen counter, threat assessed.

 

Karen sighs before looking at him, fidgeting to avoid crossing her arms. She's tense, trying to calm down. “Do you want a drink?” It's a question you could ask your friends at a normal dinner visit, one where a serial killer isn't casually pulling out a knife from his back pocket to set it on the table. He contemplates removing the mask, a thumb hooking at his ear. “Some food? Frank made garlic bread.” 

 

She makes her way to the stove, her hand touching Frank's shoulder as she passes. Matt can feel the air grow warmer, the sound of Castle's heart in his ear like a hummingbird. 

 

“ _ How _ ,” he mutters, trying to word it, yanking the cloth away - decision made - his fingers running through his hair. Karen is already filling a bowl for him from the pot. He wants to ask why he was kept in the dark about the bombings. He wants to know the  _ exact moment _ Frank knew he was who he was. How he was even decidedly standing here in Karen’s kitchen and not running from authorities. Calm, collected and still hot from being under her touch. 

 

She places the pasta in front of him, patient as always in waiting for him to continue. There’s a bit of sauce on her thumb and he can taste it before she swipes it through her lip to clean it off. 

 

Frank has already walked back to the coffee table to retrieve his open beer, his right sock catching on a groove in the wood floor - a trip - before turning and coming back. It's not something Matt felt important, yet Karen giggles at the sight, her whole body alive, the tension in her shoulders gone. 

 

“How did I miss this?”

**Author's Note:**

> hey - i'm on tumblr, come say hey back


End file.
